


Fairest

by Llewcie



Category: Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Alpha Tristan, Bellydancing, Galahad the Sassmaster, Hannibal Extended Universe, Happy Ending, Jousting Injuries, M/M, Non-Explicit, Omega Galahad, Renaissance Faire AU, Tristan is a bit of an idiot, a/b/o dynamics, fluffy fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 23:20:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10774605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llewcie/pseuds/Llewcie
Summary: Galahad and Tristan are rivals on the jousting field and casual acquaintances off.  Galahad is keeping his secondary gender a secret, after all, and it's just easier not to be close to anyone who might discover it and start treating him differently.It's a great plan.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Final contribution for #TristhadFest 2K17! I love Renaissance Faires <3 Unbetaed-- all mistakes belong to me.

The smell of springtime was the smell of the Faire, to Galahad. More than fried pickles and sweet fresh-squeezed lemonade, more than the rich smoky cooking fires built with last year's cut logs and this year's green twigs, more even than the leather of his own fancy costume jerkin, it was the smell of the first flowers and green buds that lit up the sensory feast in his mind that was the Faire. It was his favorite time of the year, uncontested.

He had been in the joust since he had been able to hold a sword, a squire at fourteen who tossed rings in the air for the knights to catch on their lances, building up his strength and skill and his ability to ride until he earned the rank of knighthood in his local SCA. And though the practice was year round, there was nothing to compare to the rush of performing for a crowd. The first time he had ridden the joust at the Faire had been both terrifying and exhilarating, and he had never regretted a single moment of time spent in practice for the spectacle. 

His rival knight, a quiet, solitary alpha named Tristan, had been his opponent on the field for four years. They were friendlier on the field than off, to be honest. Gal had decided to hide his secondary gender very early on, and it was simpler not to get close. Although alphas and omegas were perfectly equal in society, both in business and in pleasure, there were archaic holdovers that Gal just didn’t want to deal with. So he hid his tell-tale blue eyes with brown contacts, kept to himself, and never gave anyone a hint that he was anything other than the beta male he presented to the world.

Except today, frustratingly, was one of those dry, dusty days where the contacts were far more trouble than security. Galahad wiped his tearing eyes in the mirror of his small pull-behind trailer, sighing at the mirror. The left one was fine but the right one wouldn't go in, and he couldn't go into the joust with one eye blurry from irritation. He took his left contact out and rinsed them both well, putting them back in the case. Donning a pair of mirrored sunglasses, he grabbed his helmet and tossed his arm guard over his shoulder, looping the ties awkwardly as he trotted down the stairs and out into the camp.

Walking to the paddock where his horse, a sweet black gelding named Rukie, was trotting and posturing and generally just as excited as Galahad, he let himself relax. This round was done entirely in full gear, so there were no worries about flashing his eyes to the crowd. Rukie had already been saddled by Gawain, his younger brother and squire, and he ducked under the fence rails to check and tighten the cinch and the bridle. Tristan entered from the other side, his helmet under his arm, and waved genially, as his own squire, a young woman named Dagonet, led Tristan's mare Isolde up to him. They both mounted with the ease of a hundred hours of practice, and Galahad slipped off the glasses and settled his helmet on his head, checking the straps of his arm guard once he was saddled. With a tip of his hand to Tristan, also helmeted and doing a last minute check, he trotted up to the gate.

This round was purely a joust, without the tricks of catching the favors and spearing the rings. Galahad didn't mind all that, and the crowd loved it too, but this was his favorite part-- the hard crunch of the wooden lances on their steel shields, and the tricky maneuvering to make it look real. As Gawain opened the gate, Galahad leaned down to give him his glasses, and saluted him. Gawain grinned back, and got out of the way.

Galahad knew he looked magnificent as he streamed out of the gate, the colors of his horse flapping out behind him in a regal flutter of purple and black. The crowd cheered wildly, all transported back to a time they had never experienced but wanted to be a part of. He circled the field twice, Rukie moving easily under him, and settled in to wait by his shield stand. And perhaps, to watch Tristan, just a little.

Tristan's mare was a beautiful grey, white with a soft grey nose and fetlock, and a dappled rear. Tris had named her Isolde, for his Arthurian namesake's beloved, and they were a sight to see. Tristan's colors were grey and blue, and his control was perfect as he guided her through her paces with only his knees, waving to the crowd with one hand as he clasped the reins in the other. Gal could admit that he was beautiful, now when there was no danger of Tristan seeing his face. Fighting him was a pleasure, and landing him on his ass even more so, which was what today's plan was to be. No one fell out of a saddle with more dignity than Tristan, and no one exhibited more pleasure in making it happen than Galahad.

When Tristan was settled at his post, his hand on the lance, the crowd settled. Bors was doing the announcing today, and his voice carried without any need for a mic. 

"Today!" he bellowed. "Today we are here to witness the honorable games between two knights, who were friends and fellows up until the events of this morning!" The stands clamored and stomped in delight, many of whom has seen Tris soundly defeat Gal at the games of coordination earlier in the day. "In black and purple, the young Sir Galahad will fight for his honor, which has been called into question at these games today!" Several boos sounded in the direction of Tris, and Galahad grinned. On the far side, Isolde shook and stepped in anticipation as Tristan's knees squeezed her tightly. Bors continued. "In grey and blue, Sir Tristan is here to prove, for once and for all, that Sir Galahad has no place in the games!" More riotous shouting, and a few people shouted at Galahad to get off the field before he started crying. Galahad postured, turning Rukie around in a tight circle. Gawain stepped up to him and handed him his first lance, which he set on the lance brace on his leg armor. On the other side of the field, Tris's squire Dag did the same. 

Bors checked on both of them, getting a nod of confirmation from each. He grinned and spread out his arms. "LET THESE GAMES BEGIN!" As he exited the field, Gal took firm hold of the lance, tapped Rukie with both heels, and the gelding surged forward. Tristan took a breath, and then he was careening toward Gal with what seemed astonishing, terrifying speed, the tip of the lance angled to catch just the side of Gal's shield.

With a resounding thwack, the lance tip hit Gal's shield at a perfect angle, and Gal relaxed his upper arm muscles to let the shield flap behind him like a broken wing. Ooohs of consternation rippled through the stands, and he played the flustered knight for a moment, pretending to get his balance back as Rukie did his job and carried him to the other side of the field. Righting himself, he made a big circle and settled at the post. Dag looked up at him. "Ok Gal?" Galahad confirmed with a nod, and Dag waved to Bors. Once Bors saw Gawain's confirmation as well, he gave a nod for the next run. It was all done so smoothly that no one who didn’t know what was happening would see.

Gal surged forward again, but just as he leaped forward, the unthinkable happened. A small child burst from the arms of her parents and darted out into the field, heading right towards the path of the two charging knights. Gal swerved to miss her, but Tristan's horse was swerving in the same direction, and Tris didn't get his lance point up in time. It slammed against the crest of Galahad's helmet, knocking it clean off as Galahad fell off the back of his horse, landing in the dust with a crashing thud.

Galahad heard screams as the little girl began to cry, and in the margins of his blurry vision, he saw Bors racing to scoop her up. Tristan was off his horse, kneeling on the ground next to Galahad, his hands untying the plate armor that protected his arms and legs. Gal squeezed his eyes shut, taking inventory as he lay on his back. His neck was wrenched and his skull was ringing, but he had managed to deflect most of the force of the blow by allowing his entire body to absorb it. "I'm okay, Tristan. I'm fine. just stunned."

"Open your eyes for me, pup." Tristan's voice was terse as his hands, shed hastily of gloves, felt under the back of his neck gently. "I need to see if your pupils are of a different size. Come on, now." His voice was scared, breathless, and Gal had never heard him speak like that.

What could he do? He opened his eyes, and looked into Tristan's natural golden amber. Predator's eyes. Tristan's hand froze, only for a moment, clutching the back of his neck. Then, to his credit, he looked away. "Wait for the medic, pu-- Galahad. Don't move." Gawain reached them at that moment, setting the sunglasses over Galahad's eyes with a frown, but it was already too late. Tristan leaned back from him, ever so slightly, and his hand slipped from the back of Galahad's neck just at the moment Galahad was beginning to wish it to stay.

***

Galahad was carted off the field like a hero, his body on a stretcher being carried between the waves of the crowd parted like a very sweaty and concerned Red Sea. Gawain walked behind him, and Tris ahead, in low-voiced discussion about what had happened as he handed off his plate armor to Dag. Bors had retrieved his helmet, checking exaggeratedly for any ears left inside for the benefit of the people who had witnessed the accident, and then set it on his chest with a pat as if he were being carried to his own funeral pyre. Galahad bore it with as much equanimity as he could-- it was a hazard of the job, after all. He would have been more contented if he could be certain that Tristan wasn't spilling his secret to the paramedics, or even further. Galahad clenched his teeth in frustration, though it made his neck ache more. Nothing to be done now but to try and curtail the damage.

Galahad was loaded into an ambulance, but was surprised to see Tristan climbing in back rather than his brother. Gawain waved them off, promising to follow in his car. Tristan settled in next to Galahad and the paramedic, peering down in concern. Galahad winced as the sunglasses were lifted carefully off his nose and set aside. He frowned, his mouth set in a tight line. "Why you and not Gawain?" he asked, feeling uncharitable now that the ache was setting in. Tristan gave him a tight smile.

"I am the reason you are here." His voice was gruff. " And I didn't know who else knew what you have done an excellent job in concealing."

Galahad scowled at him as he allowed the paramedic to take his pulse and check his eyes for dilation. "Gawain obviously knows. I would rather that you didn't."

"I came to that conclusion," Tristan admitted softly. "However, since there is nothing to be done about it now, I can only assure you that I will keep your secret." Tristan's fingers brushed back Galahad's hair, his touch absent as if he did not know he was doing it. Galahad reached up and gripped his wrist. 

"There will be no keeping it if you insist on petting me as if I were your dog," he gritted out, far more harsh than he meant. The touch had felt good, warm and kind, a touch that he rarely allowed himself to indulge in. It made him unreasonably angry. Tristan tugged his wrist away with a flinch, and did not try to touch him again, nor speak, the entire long ride to the hospital.

Once there, Galahad was taken away to get scanned to ensure nothing was damaged or broken. By the time he was brought back to his room for observation, Gawain had arrived and was waiting for him with a t-shirt and sweatpants, which he changed into gingerly and with much relief, as the leather tunic was not exactly loungewear. Tristan was nowhere to be seen. Galahad sighed as he settled back onto the bed, aching and bruised but relatively undamaged. Gawain settled beside him with a book.

"Tristan stayed until he heard you got the all clear," he offered mildly. Galahad scowled at him. Gawain continued, "And then he muttered something about letting you rest, and that his presence was unneeded. Or was it unwelcome? I can't remember."

"He was petting me in the ambulance, Gawain."

"I can't imagine that he would do that because he feels responsible or anything."

"He's never touched me before."

"He's also never knocked your helmet clean off your head before, and you off your horse." Gawain leaned forward and made to reach for his hair, and Galahad let him without thinking, the young beta not even registering on his threat meter. Gawain stroked his forehead for a moment, watching Galahad's tired eyes droop. "We were all worried, Gal. You could have been killed."

"Wasn't, tho." he murmured, softened by the deft, familiar fingers against his temples. 

Gawain leaned forward to kiss his cheek. "We're all blessed by your stubbornness." 

"You're fuckin' stubborn…"

Gawain stayed with the sleeping Galahad, long after visiting hours were over, and eventually fell asleep in the chair, his book folded over his knee.

***


	2. Chapter 2

Galahad's brother took him back to their trailer the next morning, since he still had duties to attend to even if his brother knight was resting in one of the narrow beds in the back, drooling on the pillows when asleep and suffering through the headache of his life while awake. Gawain stopped in every hour or so to sit him up and check his eyes, to make him drink water or eat what little of the fried Faire food he could stomach. Thankfully, Vanora at the Dead Parrot kept bread and Kraft singles for grilled cheese for the little ones who could not manage turkey legs, and sent several sandwiches along at lunch time with a threat that if they were not eaten, she would come and sit on him. Vanora was one of the many out omegas in the little camp, and respected his wishes to keep his secondary gender a private matter, but she still treated him like a mother would, and he was occasionally grateful for the comfort.

Tristan was at the joust field for most of the day, on his own and doing rather well, if the hollers and screams were any indication. He was an acrobat on Isolde, the pair of them trusting each other and perfectly in harmony. A trick rider, Bors called it, but Galahad had seen it and it was something else. Something beautiful. Tris could stand on Isolde's back at a canter, and catch rings thrown to him on a modified lance, cut short so that he didn’t have to brace it. Galahad had even seen him jump into the air, letting a ribbon pass under him, and land steadily on her back, balance assured and smile cocky as fuck. Handsome asshole. Galahad munched on a cold grilled cheese as he listened to the delighted crowd, and did not wish to go and watch.

At the end of the day, as the Faire was being emptied and the trucks and vans began to quit the parking field where the performers camped for the weekend, Galahad woke to a knock on the door. Frowning, he realized that his contacts were in the little bathroom, and he was about to play dead like a possum, when he heard Gawain's voice. "I brought Tris to see you, Gal. No worries."

No worries. Galahad huffed and turned his head away as Tristan came in the trailer door. He could smell sweat both horse and human, the dust of the field and the green of the blooming foliage. It was a good smell, and it eased him a little as Tristan came to sit at his side on one of the small fold-down couches. "How are you, Galahad?" Tristan's eyes did not attempt to meet his, flickering instead over Galahad's chin and mouth and lower, over the crest of his shoulder to the dark drool puddle on the pillow. Galahad took a deep breath and deliberately turned and caught his gaze, though the evening light through the window behind him made his head wince.

"I'm fine, Tris. It’s not the hardest fall I've ever taken." He tried not to let his irritation show; he was probably not at his best right now. "I don't want you treating me like something fragile, you know. Nothing has changed."

Tristan frowned at him. "I know." 

"I've always been… I've always been what I am." He couldn't even say it now. Not that he was ashamed of being omega. Galahad had always been smaller, and he learned how to fight at an early age. First in scraps on the playground and then with a wooden sword and lance in his hands. If anything, he was content with his accomplishments. The thought of being seen differently now, even out of some misguided sense of kindness, was revolting to him. "I swear, Tris, if you start to treat me differently, I will never speak to you again."

Tristan's hand clenched, but his face remained smoothed of expression. "That would truly be my loss."

***

Resting at home for a week did wonders for both Galahad's head and his pride. By the time Thursday night rolled around again, he was itching to get back into the field. Rukie was anxious too, and tossed his head and danced when Gal rode him in the training ring at the stable where he was boarded. On early Friday morning, with only mild misgivings, Gawain helped him get Rukie settled into the trailer for the ride out to the county fairgrounds where the Ren Faire was held.

"You are sure you can ride today? No dizziness?" 

Galahad ignored his brother. "Don't be stupid, Gawain. I'm fine." When his brother frowned at him, Gal stopped and took his shoulders. "I would never endanger Rukie."

Gawain grinned at that. "And Tristan?"

Galahad snorted. "He's on his own."

***

The first part of the joust was the same as it was the week before. They often varied the script, but decided this time that doing the same performance of the week before would ease the minds of both the crowds who might had witnessed the accident and the promotors who were motivated by more monetary concerns. The joust was a main draw-- maybe the main draw to the Faire for people who didn’t come every single year, and it was important that it be a spectacle. 

The first sign that all was not well came on the first pass. Tristan, who had said a gruff hello to Galahad and nothing more as he mounted Isolde, seemed to be coming into the joust in his customary manner, but as Galahad got near enough to see Tris's mouth set in a frown, he realized that Tristan's lance was going to miss him by a mile. He shifted his shield outward, enough to graze the tip of the lance but nowhere near the solid thwack it was supposed to be. Tris grunted at the glancing hit, sweeping by with a meter to spare, and Galahad felt his face grow hot. 

Embarrassed and angry, he turned at the pike and gave Gawain, who was also frowning, a sharp nod. Bors glanced at Tristan, and Gal saw him nod again. This time, Galahad had the hit, and he braced his entire body behind it. The tip hit just left of center with a crack, and Tris was bowled backwards by the force of it. Maybe that would teach him not to be so circumspect. They circled the pikes again, and Bors gave good patter for the crowd, but Galahad heard nothing but the roar of irritation in his ears. Another sharp nod, and they were dashing towards each other, Galahad already ready for the hit that would take him off his horse.

It barely connected. One miss was unusual-- two was impossible. _Tristan was pulling his hits_. Seething now, Galahad circled around for another pass. He saw Dag whispering furiously to Tris, but Tris merely shrugged, and gave the tip signal that he was going to be the one to fall. Galahad gritted his teeth, and charged.

The taps that sent them off their horses were carefully practiced. They had to hit on the outside so that the rider could borrow the momentum, and make it look good for the crowd. Seeing red was not conducive to a good solid hit, but Gal didn’t have time to calm down. As Rukie leapt forward, Gal bared his teeth, and roared out Tristan's name with a howl. His lance impacted so hard that his lance shattered, and Tris lost his balance for real, tumbling off Isolde and landing hard on his back. Without a thought to spare for anything but his humiliation, Galahad threw himself off Rukie's back with his sword already spinning out of the sheath. He landed easily and turned into the swordfight that was supposed to belong to the next set. His sword plunged down into the sandy pitch less than six inches from Tristan's head, who stared up at him with wide eyes, still breathing hard.

"GET ON YOUR FEET!" Galahad roared, as much for Tristan as for the crowd, dragging Tris up by his ringed jerkin. Tris lurched to his feet, still encumbered with his jousting plate, and fumbled over his shoulder for his sword. Galahad took the opportunity to unlatch his own arm plate, and then swung hard, hitting Tris's upper arm plate with a clash that rang over the shouting of the crowd. Out of the corner of his eye, Gal saw Bors heading toward them, telegraphing uncertainty and more than a little irritation, and Gal swung again, the flat of his sword hitting a stinging smack on Tristan's thigh. With astonishment, the alpha unbuckled his arm plate.

"What's gotten into you!" he shouted, his eyes still wide. Galahad snarled at him, and swung again, a great big showy overswipe that Tristan barely blocked. With a snarl, the alpha fell back into first stance, his sword in both hands, and swept it in a wide circle. When Galahad lunged again, Tris was ready for him.

The swords hit much harder than they ever had before, but Gal had rarely been in such fierce earnest. Tris realized very quickly that he was not following the script, and finally began to defend with the skill that he had honed over their long years together. They fought a pitched battle, neither giving any softball strokes, and Galahad felt the burn of exertion flicker up through him, married with an exhilaration that he had not felt in a long time. Always the faster swordsman, he got in two strokes for every time he had to parry and readjust, and before they realized it, Tristan's back was against his own pike, and he was snarling and red in the face, golden eyes gleaming in the sun. Galahad taunted him them, a bright challenge, and Tris began to regain ground.

There was no question who was the better with the sword in a long fight. Galahad had the strength and the lungs of a sprinter, but Tris was the clear winner for steady and prolonged fighting. By the time Gal was pushed down in his knees into the dusty pitch, he was panting, and Tris held his sword to Galahad's throat with a roar that was all triumph and no playacting. His knee settled on Galahad's chest, a heavy, satisfying weight, and Gal collapsed into the dirt, and began to laugh.

Confused, Tristan leaned back, only to be hauled back and close by the omega under him. Between gasps for breath, Galahad shook him firmly. "Never… fucking… do that… to me… again… you goddamn… asshole," he managed, grinning and pleased, and then let drop his hand, easing back into the soft dirt and gasping into the sky.

Bewildered and breathing hard, Tristan slipped down so he was straddling Galahad's thighs, and planted both hands in the dirt. "I had _meant to spare you_ , in case you were still injured, _irritating pup_."

"Fuck you, Tris." Galahad grinned up at him, and Tris quirked his lips in a hesitant smile back. "Fuck you."

Bors awkwardly tugged Tristan upward then, and held his hand in the air, declaring him both the loser of the joust and the winner of the swordfight, and the crowd hooted and cheered and thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Galahad got up off the ground and shook himself off like a dog, demanding a rematch in his best arena holler. "TO THE DEATH!" he promised, and Tris caught his eye and held it, swiping his sword in his showiest figure eight.

"To the death, little pup." Both of them grinned with all their teeth showing.


	3. Chapter 3

The next few weeks were a contest of wills in more ways than one. For one, it was perfectly clear to nearly everyone that the smoldering torch that Tristan had been carrying for Galahad since they had first started working together was flaring out of control. The alpha was trying to contain it, but the hot stares grew long until not even Gal could deny that his quiet friend was slowly boiling over. Although no one but Gawain and Vanora knew the whole truth of Galahad's secondary gender, it was now certain that people were going to start catching on. He was still contemplating whether he wanted to come out publicly or just let the rumor fire rage. Second, their swordfights were becoming more and more intense and now had a hashtag-- #FaireFight, and trended locally for the three remaining weekends of the Faire- unprecedented. 

Throughout it all, Galahad had been on the fence on whether he wanted to encourage Tristan to attempt to court him. On the fence meaning he had caught himself flirting more than once, on the field and off. He was using swordwork that was more graceful than it had to be, and he found himself smiling, teeth bared, as he met Tristan's heavier strokes cut for cut. Tristan allowed him absolutely no quarter at all, which caused a warm burn of fierce pleasure to bubble up within him, and although Tristan won the majority of their skirmishes through sheer endurance, once or twice Galahad fought him to his knees. Those nights by the bonfire were the hardest to endure, since being beaten always made Tristan glow with poorly disguised pride and desire, and Galahad couldn't sit by him lest he be consumed by the rich resonance of his regard.

Then, on the third Sunday, when Tristan had won the swordfight and plunged his sword between Galahad's chest plate and underarm with great gusto, egged on by the roaring crowd, Gal had spent the rest of the night leaning back against Tristan's knees, not speaking, and Tristan had carefully stroked his hair, his fingertips not touching the back of Galahad's neck through sheer perversity. The violence of the performance bled out of Tristan a bit at a time, until his hips were relaxing and Galahad found himself sliding back between the alpha's thighs. Galahad roused himself and stood, pulling himself away, and chanced a quick look back at Tris, swallowing the sharp stab of the alpha's disappointment masquerading as nonchalance. 

The last fight of the Faire was always a complex mix of wanting to go out with a bang and the deep exhaustion of not having really had enough sleep for the amount of exertion involved in their upscaling battles. Bors was the one who suggested the free-for-all, and Gawain and Dag, bored of holding horses and throwing rings, enthusiastically agreed. They recruited a few more, including Bors' wife Vanora, a deft hand with a staff, and Lance, who along with being one of the Faire's producers, was also head of the local SCA and loved a good swordfight because he so rarely got to indulge. 

The last performance was scheduled at the end of the day, and the stands were packed, unusual for a final performance of a month long Faire. Bors and Vanora had been talking it up the entire weekend, staging various spats and pitched verbal battles in the public rounds where the paths met up from various sides of the grounds. Galahad played up that he was on Vanora's side, and Tristan on Bors', which led to a few personal confrontations of their own. Faire-goers were delighted and several videos showed up under the #FaireFight tag, which also delighted Lance. The last one… that was the one that pitched everything into a fury.

Galahad had a scheduled spat with Tristan in the top commons by the turkey leg vendor-- this was a junction of a pub, the end of the jousting field, and the large blademaker's tent, and was by design the largest throughway of the grounds. In the script, Tristan was to accost Galahad and accuse him of conspiring with Vanora to undermine a 'fair' joust by getting her to poison Tristan's food. Galahad would deny it unconvincingly and Lance was to intervene and declare that no one was to eat until the duel was held between the two knights. 

What actually happened went slightly off script. After Tristan had roared out that Galahad was too much of a coward to offer him a "fair fight" (a play on words that was too heavy-handed for everyone but Lance, who insisted), Galahad shot back not with his scripted line about how-dare-you-call-me-a coward but with a roundhouse punch that clocked Tristan right on the ear. Stunned, Tristan went down on his knees, but barely could Galahad crow that Tris launched himself and took Galahad down by the waist to the ground.

What followed was the most ridiculous, exhilarating bout of wrestling that either of them had either engaged in, either publically or privately. Tristan might have had more muscle, but Galahad was faster and more limber, and he used his thighs to his advantage, both as a distraction and weapon. Before Tristan knew what was happening, Gal had the alpha's head trapped between his thighs, and would give no quarter. Tristan snaked a hand up under his skirt and pinched his ass cheek, _hard_ , and Galahad bucked and shrieked but would not let go. Tristan managed to grab the back of Gal's neck, and proceeded to fold the omega in half, rolling on top of him and bearing down with all his weight.

And so it was that Lance entered the scene in this way, both of them in the dust of the road and surrounded by a cheering crowd, Tristan's head between Galahad's thighs, Galahad turning red in the face because his knees were pressed against his shoulders, booted feet crossed at the ankles as Tristan scrabbled for enough leverage to pry apart Galahad's knees. Lance's scream of "KNIGHTLY MISCONDUCT" froze them both, and at once Galahad realised exactly where he was holding Tristan's head, the alpha's incisors exposed in a crooked grin, both of them panting heavily. Galahad unhooked his ankles at once, but Tristan took his time unfolding the knight under him, smoothing down his tunic with long, careful fingers. "Don't want them to get more of a show than they bargained for, eh pup?" he rumbled softly, only for Gal to hear.

Galahad relaxed under him, and for a moment they were tucked together like lovers, Tristan between Galahad's legs in the dusty road, gazing into each other's faces, before Lance grabbed Tristan roughly and hauled him up. Galahad scrabbled up on his own, winded and aroused and red in the face. He grinned brightly at Tris and Lance, and pointed a sharp finger at them both. "I will meet you on the field of battle!"

By the time the crowd had gathered on that final field of battle, the videos of their tussle were trending under the tag #FaireFightOrFuck. Lance was both mortified and pleased that they had gotten two hashtags to trend in the course of one Faire. Tristan watched the videos with a solemn, blushing face as Dag laughed her ass off next to him. Galahad had no idea what to make of it, except that he had already made up his mind about what he wanted. He could just offer the invitation now. Tristan would have to decide what to do with it.

***

Skirmishes were set up like a game of Red Rover but with weapons-- blunted, of course, but the blades stung and Vanora cheerfully left bruises wherever she could. Galahad stood next to his brother Gawain on one side of the field, on his other side Vanora, who shouted catcalls at her mate Bors across the dust. From twenty feet away, Tristan would not take his eyes off Galahad. He was between Dag and Bors, restlessly palming his sword back and forth, which was unusual for the normally stoic alpha. Galahad grinned, a delighted feral thing, to see him so discomfited. Even from here, he could see Tris blush in response. The alpha had been blushing so much that Gal wondered if he would have blood enough for anything else, and then immediately regretted that path of thought. Nothing showed underneath Tris's heavy tunic anyway. Sadly.

Lance hollered out the rules of the game. The last person left standing would be declared Ruler of the Faire. No dirty fighting, he emphasized, twice, as if that wasn’t a rule that would be immediately broken. "For Honor," he shouted. 

From the stands, someone called back, "For Love!" The crowd erupted into cheers, and the field into immediate chaos. 

Galahad would normally stay behind Vanora-- she was in all honesty a better fighter, and her staff had much better reach. But ignoring his better instincts in favor of both showmanship and to follow his own desires, he headed straight for Tristan. And Tris was ready for him, feral smile gleaming, sword now steady in his large hands. To their left and right, whooping cries and the heavy thud of weaponry meeting signaled the battle was on, but awareness of it faded, the skirmish becoming a private one. Gal pressed whatever advantage he could get, speed over strength, but working against him was the slow realization that Tristan smelled good. Really, really fucking good. Gal gritted his teeth, trying to focus.

"You're not wearing blockers, you asshole," he grunted into Tristan's ear as they pressed against each other, fighting for the winning balance. Because Tristan has _always_ worn blockers. _Everyone_ wore blockers. Tris just smiled at him, slipping under his guard to grip his hip, spin him hard, and shove him to the ground. Gal landed on his knees, sputtering, but his head clearer for a breath or two of dust. He jumped forward, dragging his sword up, and spun around to meet the high stroke he knew was coming, blocking it with ease and getting his boot firmly planted on Tristan's belly, kicking him backwards. Tristan didn't fall; he never fell, but he sank into a stance that Gal recognized from long familiarity. Hand behind his back like a fencer, heavy sword easy in his grip. But fencing was Galahad's area of expertise. 

Did Tristan want to show him off? Gal was both flustered and irritated, and he fell into a matching stance with a growl. Around them, they could hear Bors hollering as his mate whacked him around the shoulders. Lance had joined in against the two squires. It looked like a free-for-all, even carefully choreographed to look out of control. But it was only Galahad who was feeling out of control at the moment. His sword tip wavered. Tristan slid his blade across Gal's, the clean ring of it a pure note, until they were less than a foot from each other. The Tristan spoke, soft and rough, amber eyes fixed on Gal's. "Allow me to court you, Galahad. Please."

Gal flushed hot from tip to tail. He breathed in the scent of Tristan, of horse and sweat and fire, and allowed himself the surprise of being asked, rather than having to offer. His decision was already made. "Win me, then. And if you do, I will meet you on the field tonight, and dance for you."

Tristan's nostril's flared. He swallowed, and nodded once. Stepping back, he bowed his head. Galahad smirked at him, and attacked.


	4. Chapter 4

Afterwards, Tristan would not be able to isolate the moment when he lost control of the battle. It was both too fast and too slow for him to track it with any certainty. All that he knew was that, at some point, he had plunged his sword into the dirt and sought to subdue Galahad with his bare hands. Every noise around him vanished, every scream and ring of steel on steel, until all he could hear was Galahad's and his strained grunts and breathing as they wrestled in the dirt. Galahad was a stroppy grappler, but he was proving no match for Tristan in full alpha pre-rut, either consciously or subconsciously. Punches didn’t land quite as hard, and Galahad's body did not move out of the way as Tristan hazily knew he was capable of. 

Lance and Bors ended up having to pull them apart, lest they really give the #FaireFightOrFuck tag something to go viral about. But even that didn’t go quite as planned, as Lance ended up with a black eye when Galahad tried to fight his way back to Tristan, who was being sat upon by Bors and Vanora, with Dag and Gawain each holding a leg. With Lance on the ground groaning in pain, and everyone else dogpiled on Tristan, Galahad came out of his daze to roses being thrown at his booted feet. A delighted Arthur, in full royal regalia, came down from the stands to crown Galahad's head with violets and tiny white and pink rosebuds. "Last one standing," he smirked. "Even if it is because everyone else is sitting on Tristan."

Galahad recovered himself enough to make a triumphant gesture at the crowd, though his eyes were ever on the fallen knight. The roaring heightened when Tristan was helped up off the turf by a laughing Arthur, stumbling forward only to throw himself to his knees at Galahad's feet. Like a blast radius of silence, the noise of the arena dropped off to nothing except a hundred intakes of breath. Tristan looked up at Galahad, his eyes warm with love, and uncertainty. Those amber eyes took in the flowers draped over his dusty curls, the scruff of his thick beard, the smudge of dirt heavy on his cheeks. Galahad shook his head at his beloved friend, helplessly smiling. "What will I do with you, Tristan?"

"Have me." Tristan's voice was gruff with longing. Galahad reached a hand down to him, and tugged him up so he could take the alpha's face in his hands.

"Only if I can keep you." Tristan grinned at him, surprise and pleasure and relief spilling past the barrier of his skin. Galahad leaned in and placed a soft, chaste kiss on his mouth. 

"Are you asking me to be your mate, Galahad?" Tris murmured the words into his mouth, and his opened his lips to swallow them, and smiled, his heart too bright to hold in his pleasure. 

"Come tonight to this field, and I will dance for you."

***

When Tristan, after a long cold shower and an hour of nervous grooming, assisted by a giddy Dagonet and an uncomfortably over-informative Vanora, emerged from his trailer and headed to the jousting field, he could hear that the party had already started. Drums, mostly, but he could also hear the light, high song of a violin-- that would be Bors, who played for them often and could fit any tune to a rowdy dance. Tris had once heard him transform Twinkle Twinkle Little Star into a bawdy bar romp, complete with rude lyrics that the children were repeating for weeks at the top of their lungs, to hilarity and consternation both. Now the tune was rhythmic and fast, and it made Tristan's heart pound, flushing adrenalin through his system in the most unproductive manner. Vanora had made certain he knew how to mate an omega. Vanora had also instructed him on how to please one, from her own experience with Bors, and now Tristan knew entirely more than he ever wanted to know about Bors’ knot and Vanora’s vagina’ walls. Vanora had also told him, over and over, that the dance on the field was when he had to prove his control, and that it would be sorely tested.

Tristan had been tested enough for a lifetime already, and the night had just started. The week of tussles with Galahad had just escalated hormones, likely on both sides, and he was already in pre-rut from the wrestling match by the turkey leg stand, his pulse throbbing in uncomfortable places. He gritted his teeth, took a few deep breaths, and nodded. Galahad was ahead, and that’s where Tristan wanted to be.

As he walked onto the field, he could see that about half of the Faire citizens had stayed-- the vendors and players and admins. No unbonded alphas were allowed, Tristan being the sole exception, but every beta and omega would be there, and every bonded alpha. As he walked past small knots of merrymakers, a hush fell over the pitch until even the violin stopped with a flourish, and Bors wagged fuzzy eyebrows at him. Firelight flickered over all of their faces, all of them smiling, waiting. He cleared his throat.

"Where is Galahad?" His voice came out strong, for which he was exceptionally glad.

"Who's asking?" Vanora, then, in the role of Queen. It suited her. She was not smiling, and looked sternly at him from across the fire. 

"My name is Tristan. He knows me."

"Why should he care?"

This was a question that Tristan had thought long about, miserable with nerves as Dag braided his hair. Why indeed? Who was he to beg a claim on a man such as Galahad? He looked at the soft dirt that was his home when he was here, and then raised his head. "I know I am nothing to him."

The quiet became absolute, sound vanishing from every muttering corner. Tristan glanced around to see that smiles had fallen away. More quietly, he continued. "I know I am supposed to list my best qualities; I should regale you all with tales of my strength and skill, my earning power, my sexual prowess, perhaps. But I come instead with my head empty. When I am with Galahad, all thoughts of myself fall away." He scuffed a boot in the dirt, feeling a blush overcoming him. "I can speak no words in my favor, but that he knows me."

Utter silence, but for the crackle of the fire. Then, Galahad stood from the other side of the fire, where he had been sitting, hidden from view. He was bare to the waist but for silver chains around his neck and his belly. At his hips a long, heavy white skirt covered in glittering silver disks flared outward. As he walked around the bonfire, Tristan saw that his feet were bare, because he could not look up at Galahad's face, too afraid to read rejection there. But Galahad stepped right up to him, and lifted his chin with a firm hand so that they could gaze at each other. "I do know you, Tristan."

Tris gave him a rueful smile. "You asked me to win you, and instead I fell on my knees before you in battle."

"I think it was your ass." Galahad grinned at him, then, and took his hand. Tristan clutched it like a lifeline. "But only because Bors was sitting on you," he allowed, smiling.

"I have the bruised ribs to prove it." Bors squawked at that, and the sound of a sharp smack followed. Tristan squeezed Galahad's hand. "Will you have me, Galahad? Don't draw it out, please, if you won't. I can't bear it."

"Will you stand and watch me dance for you?" 

Robbed of words, Tristan could only nod. Galahad stepped back from him, and swirled gracefully, the handkerchief hem of his skirt flaring to show bare well-muscled thighs. A soft drumbeat began pulsing in the background, and another, louder joined it. The firelight turned his hair to a burnished red as he lifted his arms, and began to move.

In armor, Galahad was a fierce fighter, quick and graceful and always a pleasure to watch. Now, bare skin glowing from fire and sweat, he was more powerful than Tristan had ever seen him. With a languid flick of each hip, he rolled his belly like a wave, leaning back until his curls skimmed the dirt, his arms reaching upward, undulating like tongues of flame. His body moved like silk in a soft wind, slow and strong as his feet moved him just out of reach. The chains around his belly and neck rose and fell with his movements, making bright and merry noises as they fell against his skin. Tristan felt the pull to him as if Galahad had gripped his spine and tugged him forward, and he clenched his hands in a mighty effort to resist it.

Seeming not to notice his difficulty, Galahad flickered closer, sweeping a hip to the side so that his skirt bared him to the tops of his thighs. He turned his back to Tristan, a show of absolute trust, and rolled his belly, so that Tristan could see his spine undulate like a snake, muscles rippling over golden flesh. He was so close that Tristan was forced to stand perfectly still, his hands gripping the outside seams of his pants, as Galahad danced a breath away from his body. Faraway, clapping and cheering had begun, and the lilting strains of the violin, but Tristan registered only the heavy breaths of them both, one in exertion and one in the last bare threads of control. Galahad spun gracefully around him, arms flung up in perfect joy, and Tristan breathed in the flooding sweetness of slick and arousal, and his control snapped.

Rather than put his hands on this man, though, and break that fragile trust that blossomed on Galahad's face, he flung himself to the ground, his hands plunging deep into the loam in a desperate attempt to be still. 

The music stopped. As Tristan panted and groaned softly in distress into the dirt, Galahad's slender, dusty feet settled before him. Tristan could not raise his eyes. A soft shuffle, and then the hem of the beautiful skirt was in the dirt as well, as Galahad kneeled before him. Labored breathing reached his ears before any other sound, and then few tugs and shifts and the definite sound of hooks being undone, and a white cloth, heavy with the weight of hundreds of metal disks, settled on top of them both. The smell of their mixed arousal and sweat was suddenly much more intense. Tristan opened his eyes to a very naked Galahad grinning at him from beneath their little impromptu shelter. 

Tristan swallowed, and somehow found his voice. "Did you just throw your skirt over us both?"

"I did," Galahad agreed solemnly, but he was smiling, his lithe body hot in the small space. Tristan grinned back, happiness flooding him to his extremities. "Ask me now, Tris."

Tristan didn’t even hesitate. "Will you have me, Gal?"

"Yes," he answered, breathless and giddy. He slid to one knee and pressed his neck to Tristan's mouth, his whole body trembling, and Tristan no steadier. With a cry that might have involved actual tears, Tristan kissed his neck, sucking a mark into it that the entire Faire would see and recognise. With a sucking noise, he laved a final kiss onto the purpling skin, and then tugged his hair back to bare his own. 

"I am yours, as you are mine." Panting and delighted, eyes blown black, Gal bit a bruise into him, pressing so hard he knocked them both over. 

Flailing for a moment in a tangle of limbs, Tristan finally managed to tug off the skirt and then wrapped Gal in it, lifting him over his shoulder. Gal shouted in indignation, laughing now, as Tristan carried him across the pitch, past delighted dancers cheering them on, to the red tent where the king, during the Faire, presided over the joust. Before sweeping him under the hem of the canvas, Tris settled Gal on his feet in front of an entirely different sort of cheering crowd, tugging the skirt around them both. Even with the music and the dancing, the fire and the celebration, the world narrowed to just the two of them, wrapped in each other. Tristan kissed Galahad slowly, luxuriously, nipping and sucking at the mating mark, until Vanora and Bors shouted that they were scaring the children, and shooed them inside.

The volume of the festival around them increased, until it was almost loud enough to drown out the sound of their mating. 

Almost.


End file.
